"Hunting I reckon very good To brace the nerves, and stir the blood; But after no field-honours itch, Atchiev'd by leaping hedge and ditch. _While Spleen lies soft relax'd in bed, Or o'er coal-fires inclines the head_, Hygeia's sons with hound and horn, And jovial cry, awake the Morn: These see her from her dusky plight, Smear'd by th' embraces of the Night, With roral wash redeem her face, And prove herself of Titan's race, _And, mounting in loose robes the skies, Shed light and fragrance as she flies_. Then horse and hound fierce joy display, Exulting at the 'Hark-away!' And in pursuit o'er tainted ground From lungs robust field-notes resound. Then, as St. George the dragon slew, _Spleen pierc'd, trod down, and dying view_, While all the spirits are on wing, And woods, and hills, and valleys ring. To cure the mind's wrong bias, Spleen, Some recommend the bowling-green; Some, hilly walks; all, exercise; _Fling but a stone, the giant dies_; Laugh, and be well. Monkeys have been Extreme good doctors for the Spleen; And kitten, if the humour hit, Has harlequin'd away the fit." We may take an opportunity of resuming this subject. THE RISING PERIODICAL; BEING MR. VERDANT'S ACCOUNT OF HIS LAST AERIAL VOYAGE, _edited_ BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. Without apology, I'll trace Our airy flight across the sea, Because at once we raised _ourselves_ And public curiosity. And well might those who saw us off, Our many perils long discuss, Because, ere we were out of sight, 'Twas certainly "all up with us!" There might be danger, sure enough, On high, from thirst and hunger blending; But men are told they should _bear up_ Against the danger that's impending. So we bore up into the clouds, Of creature comforts ample store; And really coffee ne'er was known To rise so speedily before. Our tongues, though salted, never halted; Our game fresh-kill'd was very high; And, though all nicely truss'd and roasted, We saw our fowls and turkeys fly! Our solid food rose like a puff, Hard biscuit seem'd a trifle, too; And our champagne was so much up, That e'en our empty bottles flew! Our spirits rose; in fact we were, When not a dozen miles from Dover, Quite in a _state of elevation_, Indisputably "_half seas over_." How like conspirators were we, So snug we kept our hour of rising; And when our movement once was made, All London cried, "Oh! how surprising!" If, when we soar'd above the great, They trembled, 'twas without occasion: Our thoughts were turned to France; in truth We meditated an invasion!